Dear God (Let Me Give You My Life)
by CeceVolume
Summary: Possible two-shot. After canon. He was supposed to protect their people. Not just her. T for potential/insinuated violence.


DEAR GOD (LET ME GIVE YOU MY LIFE)

It was hard for her to breathe. Was this the boy that had told her (like it was the worst thing in the world), "I'm a murderer,"?

His hair was covered in grime, his machete dripping with blood. All traces of her companion were gone, left to the vicious beast that contorted his features. There had been hints towards the monster that laid within him before, but never the full-grown monster. The sight of it scared her beyond anything.

It was an expression saved for his sister. A feeling that could only be felt when the person he wanted to protect was in danger.

So why was it reflected towards _her_?

-.-.-.-.-

Octavia was surrounded and all he saw was red.

They had no plans to simply kill her; he knew that look in their eyes. He had seen it in the gazes of the men who had come to visit his mother, the girls who had snuck into his tent on The Ground.

And that made fury rise within him. Potent and lethal, it choked him. (He had wanted to be a better person—for the boy his mother had raised. But would she fault him now, doing what she had made him promise to do?)

Octavia deserved so much more than this. She deserved more than being sent to Earth to die, than having to live 'them-or-us'. She deserved more than having to kill another human to protect herself, more than worrying if that day was her last.

He had meant for her to have so much more.

But now there was no other option. He couldn't protect her by standing in front of her, he couldn't keep her safe by threatening their lives.

He had to kill them. _All_ of them.

"Duck, O!" he order, raising his gun, knowing that there was no going back. He knew that taking these lives would be the end of the line; the man he became could never go back to the boy he'd been. Killing to protect himself was one thing: a life in place of his own.

But this was Octavia, not some random delinquent. His _baby sister_ was in danger and there was no way he could let them hurt her.

And he couldn't completely justify it. He had been willing to let so many others die for the name of peace among the teens: Jasper, Murphy, Finn. Hell, he had been proud of Clarke when she'd closed the dropship door on thirty-three of three own—including himself—to protect the majority.

She had been able to do what he might not have been able to; if it had been him, they all might have died. Clarke Griffin, the princess of the Ark, was a tough cookie that he could find respect for, a woman he would be so thankful to have next him right now.

_He_ was supposed to be the motivator, the general. _He_ was supposed to do what _she _told him to do. _She_ was supposed to make these decisions.

Yet he had to make this decision on his own. _She_ wasn't here, which meant—for perhaps the first time in his life—he had to accept the complete and utter consequences of what he was about to do next.

This wasn't a decision that made sense. It would actually _benefit_ if he allowed Octavia to be executed by Lexa's men; she had attacked them in her search for Lincoln, afterall. The remaining of the one hundred actually _needed_ her dead as part of a treaty. _Blood for blood_, the Grounders had said. In their minds, Octavia's life would be a _huge_ step in the right direction.

He'd thought of what Clarke would do. Despite her relationship with Octavia, she would be level-headed, would think of what was best for them. Just as she had since the moment they'd dropped. She'd even warned those boys who'd died when they'd hit the atmosphere to keep others from following their stupid joyride. God, had she ever made a completely emotional decision in her life?

_Charlotte._

No. Now was not the time to think of that, to let himself be distracted from what he was doing. He had one shot and one shot _only_.

So, as Octavia followed his order and drop to her belly out of harm's way, he ignored any rational thought, ignored what it would mean for them.

And fired a bullet straight into the executioner's head.

-.-.-.-.-

Oh, God, _no_. He couldn't be thinking to mimic his actions from when his sister was in danger. He couldn't risk everyone's lives for _her_.

Would she ever be able to live with herself again?

She tried to convince herself that this was different. This was…perhaps it was just some military strike that she wasn't seeing all the angles of. This couldn't be all about her. _All the deaths couldn't be laid on her shoulders._

Afterall, he had seen so many of the things she had missed when they'd attacked Mount Weather. From prospective attack sights to strategies to primary targets. His point of view had made sense then; why wouldn't it now?

He had studied this particular clan of Grounders for the last few weeks when they'd passed over the boundaries in the treaty. He knew the daily routine of every member of the tribe from morning until dusk (she wasn't even sure if that was an exaggeration) just from a short recon mission with some of their shooters.

He _had_ to know something that she didn't, just like Mount Weather.

-.-.-.-.-

Clarke's drawings of the passageways were too much. The detail—even if there were still a lot of unknowns out there—was unbelievable. She had painstakingly sketched out all that she knew about Creepyland; he could remember watching her sketch and shadow everything as if it were the most important thing she'd ever done. _Their people_ meant that much to her.

But she hadn't thought about what to do about the unknowns. She was so focused on what the rescue mission that she hadn't thought about who—or what—might be waiting for them in the corridors they didn't know.

Which was why it was up to him to make sure that those dark hallways were free of any guards or security.

"I'll catch up," he murmured in her ear, glancing into the darkness at their left. "I just want to make sure no one's following."

All he got was a nod, but that was all he needed. _Just like a well-trained guard dog,_ he thought to himself, furious that he felt the need for her approval. Who was _Clarke Griffin_ to tell him what to do? Who was this miniscule blonde to demand such respect from him?

Yet he put his hand to her shoulder and squeezed, letting her know that he would be just fine, that he would see her after the battle ahead of them.

Even as he tried to ignore the flutter in his stomach—_this can't be like teaching her to shoot; that was just a fluke, a one time curiosity_—guttural snarls echoed behind them. Even as he tried to ignore the fear that she might be the target, he thrust her behind him, spinning around and raising his rifle. Even as he tried to explain his focus on _her_ safety (over all the others with them) away, he pulled the trigger, watched that Reaper's eyes widen.

Was he supposed to feel remorse as the body flung away, spinning before falling lifelessly to the ground?

-.-.-.-.-

She tried to call out to him, tried to stop him. God, did she _try_. He had so many others to think of; if he went through with this, there would be no peace _ever_. A leader for a leader…that was how Lexa saw it. It could be so easy if they just followed the Grounders' rules. _Stop, stop, stop!_

It didn't matter, though. There was something in his eyes, something that she couldn't quite place and knew she wasn't prepared to. Despite the kamikaze-like fight ahead of them, the one they would never make it out of, he was there for _her_.

God forgive them, he was protecting _her._

So how could she be surprised when his eyes went dead, forgetting all that they had done to save themselves, turning away from her as she twisted against her bonds? How could she act shocked when he raised that weapon behind his head, taking all the Grounders by surprise, not letting them get a moment to retaliate? How could she pretend that this made sense for them all in the long run?

Instead, she just watched, calling out to him that it wasn't worth it, ignoring the fact that he was willing to kill, to destroy a life (he hadn't been able to do that for anyone but Octavia and Charlotte before her; why would he change his MO now?) just to protect _hers_.

And she would never forget the complete lack of sympathy on Bellamy Blake's face as he flung the blade and released it, nor the sound of Lexa's body falling to the ground.

The sight of his machete buried in her chest as anarchy reigned, the blood seeping even as her dying eyes tried to comprehend it, would be forever embedded in Clarke's mind.

_He did this for _me_, _she thought, just before his figure was obscured by the Commander's guards.

_I'm thinking I may have to do a companion piece to this, completely in Bellamy's perspective. Thoughts?_


End file.
